The Last Vacation
by SplatDragon
Summary: Whumptober2019: Arthur should have known something would happen. Every time, every single time, he tried to take a break from the gang, something went wrong. So why would this time be different?


**Whumptober 2019, #10: "Unconscious" and Alt. Prompt #16: "Bound"**  
**Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Ambush"**

Every damn time.

Every _damn _time.

Every time Arthur tried to take a break, a vacation from the gang, no matter how short, it _always_ went wrong.

He really should have known better.

How could just one night sleeping away from camp, under the stars, go wrong? He had thought.

Things didn't really go wrong when he had a _job_. When he was going to a city, or town, to do work, or a heist, or to meet with someone. But if he was just trying to relax?

He'd get jumped by a cougar, or chased by a bear. Find out that he set down his bedroll on top of a fire-ant hill, or that his tent was where the tide came in. It _never_ happened when he was out for work, of course. He'd sleep like a baby, wake up, pack up his tent and be off.

So when he woke up to the butt of a gun rushing at his face, he supposes he shouldn't have been surprised. He didn't have a chance to react, to reach for his gun or twist or even shout in alarm, before it slammed into his temple. An explosion of pain, and his vision faded out, unable to do anything as he was turned onto his stomach.

He woke up slowly.

The air stunk of horse sweat, and his ribs hurt, hip-bones digging into his torso. He started to groan, but cut the sound off, biting the inside of his mouth.

What had happened?

His head was throbbing, and he opened his eyes just a slit, alarmed for a moment to realize that he couldn't see out of his right. But, no, he wasn't blind, he was seeing dark red, so his forehead was bleeding?

And, he twitched his hands, his wrists were bound. Too, too tight, the ropes _burned_ and he knew his skin had been rubbed away, could feel blood streaming down his arms. His head was hanging down, so full of blood that it felt heavy with pressure, and his feet were bound, he was sure, could feel the rope digging into the skin that was bared between his pants and his boots.

The… that's right, he'd been hit with a gun, hadn't he? Must've been tied and thrown on the back of a horse, then. He supposed he was lucky he wasn't hog-tied, at the least, although he wished they hadn't hit him quite so hard. His head was _killing_ him, and he could hardly think.

But he needed to get himself free. He didn't know who had got him, but whoever they were it was a given that they meant him harm.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, clenching his fists as the sun made his head throb even worse. '_Hell, that hurts!'_ His vision was distorted, hazy and warped, and he moved his head slowly, turning to the right, barely able to make out a man on the back of a knob-kneed horse. The light finally hit them just right, and a badge gleamed—he squinted—it lacked the spokes of a sheriff-badge, and they lacked the distinct white hat of a lawman.

A bounty hunter, then.

Well, considering he was on the back of a horse, bounty hunter_s_.

'_Shit.'_

He didn't know how close they were to the nearest town, how long he had been out, but he _did_ know he needed to get himself loose.

So he began to twist his wrists, as fast as he could without making it noticeable, feeling his skin tear, over and over, with each rotation. It _burned_, and he could feel more and more blood oozing down his arms, but he kept going until he felt the rope begin to fray, until he knew he could pull it apart.

Taking a deep breath, he prayed that he could shoot straight, and lunged for the rifle that rested on the horse's saddle at the same time that he kicked off, rolling off the back of the horse and hitting the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

The bounty hunters shouted in alarm, drawing their weapons, but he was the quicker shot and fired once, between his legs to sever the rope binding his feet, and then a second time, dropping the first bounty hunter, before he had to reload. He scrambled to his feet, bolting for a tree as he reloaded, feeling like he was running through molasses, like the ground beneath him was shifting and rolling, but the bounty hunter's shots flew wide, struck the dirt and threw up nothing more than clouds of dirt.

Finally getting the gun re-loaded, he brought it up and aimed, fired once, twice, and dropped a bounty hunter, his head vanishing in an explosion of blood and shards of bone. The second shot flew wide, and he snarled a curse, ducking back behind a tree, reloading the gun again as he heard horses approaching, chunks of bark flying off the tree as it was struck by bullets. His first shot was too low, struck the man in the stomach, and the man cried out, dropping his gun. It would have killed him over time, but Arthur wanted him dead _then_, so he raised the gun and fired again, watching as the man toppled off of his horse.

"Shit," he grimaced, spitting on the ground. He wiped his mouth, reloaded the gun just in case, before approaching the bounty hunters' horses. Arthur soothed them, dug through their saddle bags and piled their things into the healthiest looking one's, grinning in relief when he found his satchel and weapons. Finding his knife, he took a moment to cut his bindings off, grimacing at the sight of the wounds, knowing that Hosea would chew his ear off at the sight of them, and that there was no way he could hide them.

He mounted up on the gelding, shaking his head and kicking them into a trot, intending on riding until he found something that looked familiar so he could head back to camp.

"No more _damn_ vacations." he spat.


End file.
